


friends with benefits

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, F/M, i was on pain medication when i wrote this i'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:33:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which college freshman Dirk Strider has the greatest one-night stand of his life. Oh, and the sex was okay, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	friends with benefits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TurntechKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurntechKnight/gifts).



> i had surgery on friday and i am extremely heavily medicated so half of this probably doesn't make sense i'm sorry
> 
> also how do you write any of these characters i'm in way over my head
> 
> based in the universe of "silence is golden" by wittyy-name which you should read now

Dirk woke up with a killer hangover and a dry mouth. He groaned and tried to get his bearings—he was pretty sure it was Saturday, so he didn’t have any classes today, thank god. Probably morning, because the fog in his head felt more like an _I-drank-way-too-fucking-much-last-night_ haze than an _I-slept-for-twelve-hours-straight_ haze. He rolled over and reached for his shades on the nightstand, but they weren’t there. The table was wood, not metal, like his own.

He was also naked.

_Shit._

He cracked his eyes open and winced, because the daylight wasn’t doing his headache any favors. The obnoxiously pink bedroom wasn’t his, and neither was the satin comforter. He lifted his head a little and saw a blond girl sprawled on the bed—presumably hers—next to him.

“Goddammit,” he muttered. Memories from last night started to trickle through the alcoholic fog. Dancing, music, vodka, a pretty blond girl with her hand on his hip. “I’m Roxy,” she’d shouted in his hear.

“Dirk,” he’d said.

“You’re pretty cute,” she’d told him. “My place?”

It hadn’t taken much convincing. She was a knockout, and they were both drunk almost to the point of incoherency. He started to fumble blindly on the floor for his shades.

A phone started ringing, loud and shrill enough to make him feel like his skull was going to split open, and the girl—Roxy, god, he didn’t even know her last name—mumbled her displeasure and sat up groggily. “You gonna answer that?” she yawned.

Oh. Duh. His phone. He found it on the floor and answered on the last ring. “Yeah.”

“Dirk?” It was a kid’s voice, still high-pitched but cracking with puberty and maybe just a little worry. “I’m hungry.”

_Shit._

“Sorry, little man,” Dirk said. “No cereal left?”

“No,” Dave told him. “There’s no food. You said you were gonna go to the store before you came home. Why didn’t you come home?”

You groan, glance at Roxy, and sit up, reaching for your boxers. “I…look, I fucked up, kiddo. Sorry. I’m on my way home now. Tell you what, I’ll even bring you some of those cinnamon whatsits from Mickey D’s, deal?”

Dave was silent on the other end, and Dirk knew he was thinking about how much deeper the apology ran than just a “sorry.” They both knew they couldn’t afford fast food; Dirk was struggling to keep store brand shit in the cupboards as it was.

“Yeah, okay,” Dave finally said. “I’ll just do my homework or something.”

He hung up, and Dirk wasn’t sure if his apology was accepted.

He yanked his boxers on and fumbled for his shirt and refused to look at Roxy. “That was fun,” he muttered. “Gotta go.”

“Whoa, hold up,” she said, and yanked him back into the bed by the collar of his shirt. “You seem too nice to be one of those guys that fucks and runs. That your kid or somethin’?”

“Brother,” he corrected her. “I need to get home.”

“Wait twenty minutes,” she told him, and when he started to protest she clapped a hand over his mouth. “Nuh-uh,” she said, “the old lady downstairs is the most conservative bitch-ass prude you’ll ever see and I ain’t making you do _that_ walk of shame alone. Twenty minutes.” Without waiting for an argument, she bounced out of bed with more enthusiasm than he thought was necessary when she was probably _more_ hungover then him, and vanished into the bathroom, pausing to grab a wad of clothes from the pile next to her dresser.

Dirk sighed and slid into his jeans. No way was she going anywhere with him; he didn’t know her and he wasn’t going anywhere near his apartment with a one-night stand in tow. He’d just slid on his shades and had his hand on the doorknob when Roxy’s voice called sweetly over the sound of running water from the sink: “Dirk, if you set foot outside that door without me I will find out your student e-mail address and I will send you a virus that makes ‘Gangham Style’ pop up every time you press the space key, so help me.”

He stopped and backed away from the door, and sure enough, when he glanced at her desk there was a stack of textbooks for advanced computer programming courses. He saw several books for classes usually reserved for juniors and seniors, and he was fairly sure that Roxy was his age.

Well, two could play at that game. “Try it and you’ll get a mechanical spider spraying machine oil all over your bedsheets,” he called back, and Roxy cackled. “I knew I liked you!” she yelled.

The sink shut off, and she stepped out, toweling her face dry, and she’d covered the marks on her neck with makeup and a turtleneck. “Presentable?” she asked, and twirled for effect. Her miniskirt, which was a little shorter than the word _presentable_ entailed, flared out.

“Sure,” he said. “Me?”

“Not even close,” she promised him. “You’ve got some wicked sex hair. Let’s go.”

Evidently he hadn’t fixed his “wicked sex hair” by mussing it up, because the cashier at the grocery store still gave him a look somewhere between disgusted and congratulatory. He finally managed to find a ten dollar bill in his back pocket and payed for his meager grocery haul, a box of store brand Cheerio rip-offs and a package of hot dogs. He stared pointedly at the floor while Roxy payed for her own food—she assured him she’d been putting off a grocery run—with a sleek black credit card and left with two bulging bags over her arms.

“Bye,” he muttered when they reached the sidewalk, but she just looped her arm through his and said, “Nope. Lead the way, Dirky-poo.”

This was getting ridiculous, and he was fairly sure that one-night stands were supposed to end after one night, so he tried to shake her off; she clung tighter and said, “Come on, Dirk, don’t fight me on this,” and she had such a serious look on her face, almost mothering, that he gave up and started walking west, towards his apartment building. He turned a street away, to make a detour to McDonald’s, but she yanked on his arm and said, “No way, you are not giving anyone those shitty half-assed attempts at cinnamon rolls,” she told him. He pulled his elbow free and—admittedly sulking—led her the remaining three blocks to his apartment building. He refused to speak to her the entire elevator ride to the third floor, and once they stepped into the hall he just grunted “Welcome to casa di Strider,” while he dug his keys out of his pockets.

“Lalonde,” she said as he shouldered the door open. “Roxy Lalonde.”

Dave was waiting inside, math textbook open on the kitchen counter and earbuds blasting his music too loud. He only looked up when Dirk thumped his bag on the countertop—unnecessarily loudly—and only then it was to say “Where’s breakfast?” and then, once he’d caught sight of Roxy, “That your girlfriend?”

“Nah,” Roxy told him—Roxy Lalonde, and the last name struck Dirk as surprisingly sophisticated-sounding for someone whose apartment contained more cheap liquor than a seedy back-alley booze shop—“Study buddy. Fell asleep last night doin’ homework,” she said easily.

Dave snorted, and if he hadn’t been wearing his sunglasses Dirk would have seen his eyes roll, but all he said was “Where’s breakfast?” again.

Roxy dug around in one of her grocery bags and produced a roll of ready-bake cinnamon rolls. “Your brother’s gonna make it,” she told Dave, “because I can’t cook.”

“Can you do math?” he asked, and angled his pencil towards his notebook.

Roxy tossed the cinnamon rolls to Dirk and waved him toward the oven as she said, “Kid, I plan on majoring in computer programming and development, _shit_ yes I can do sixth grade math. Lemme at it.”

Dirk rummaged around and did his best to make decent food—found a pan, cranked on the oven and tried not to choke at the gas stench—while Roxy played tutor. She did a better job than he ever could. He was _trying,_ god, but sometimes he forgot that Dave was actually a decently smart kid and he’d bore the poor boy to death, or he’d forget that he was speaking to a middle schooler and leave him in his mental dust—there was nothing in between.

Finally he dumped a plate of partially-burnt rolls covered messily in pre-packaged icing on the counter, and all three of them were full within minutes. Dave licked his fingers while he checked his homework against the answers in the back of the textbook, assignment done faster than Dirk had ever seen him do math. Roxy got up to bang around in the kitchen for a glass of milk, and Dirk wondered if there was any Tylenol left in the bathroom cabinet. Probably not.

It was only after he’d finally done the dishes and Dave was halfway through his science worksheet that Roxy left, a friendly wiggle of the fingers and an airborne kiss left as she shut the door behind her. Dirk opened a cabinet to tuck away the cereal from the store and found it already crammed with food he _definitely_ hadn’t bought, and when he glanced in the trashcan behind him there was an empty grocery sack that wasn’t his.

“Study buddy,” Dave said from the counter.

“Yes,” Dirk told him, and crammed the cereal box in the cabinet.

“Sure,” Dave said. “Nice hickey.”

*#*#*

Roxy sat two rows in front of him in the required stats class, and Tuesday morning he shoved a twenty dollar bill in the front of her textbook when she wasn’t looking. Thursday when he opened his book he found the bill folded inside a sheet of stationary with an elaborately raised middle finger drawn in pink glitter pen. _“if u try to return the food i will erase ur computer’s hard drive”_ she’d scrawled underneath.

He just smiled.

 


End file.
